“And since Arawn came so close to accomplishing that very feat, I feel it best to not evoke such possibilities,” Richard finished, shrugging. “You hide the truth then,” Bran said. “As Merle would.”
“Perhaps,” Richard said, thinking on it. “Perhaps I’m more like the old man than I wish to admit.”
“The Church. The fey. Plantagenet and those he led,” Bran snorted. “All of them were willing to kill thousands for what they believe. Even on the street, nothing like that happens. This is the insanity I’ve been brought into, eh?”
“Thousands can die at the behest of the world’s powerful, yes,” Richard said. “But make no mistake, even the low man can succumb to extremism. I have learned over my life that the simplest and most well meaning thoughts and emotions can become an evil—whether they be from the man on the street or the highest religious Church member in the world. It does not matter. Religion becomes fanaticism. Love can become jealousy. Food and drink can become gluttony. Taking anything to the extreme is an evil.”
“Like your need to avenge the death of your wife,” Bran noted, his eyes piercing Richard’s own. “No matter if your leaving put the rest of us in Annwn in danger.”
“Like your feelings for Deirdre despite knowing her for only hours,” Richard retorted pointedly.
The boy stared hard at Richard before looking away, the pain he felt etched deep on his features. The older knight watched him before turning back to the Sound. Neither spoke. They both knew they had stung the other; they both knew the truth the other spoke.
“What of the Holy Grail?” Bran asked finally.
“What of it?”
“You really can’t use the Dark Thorn to find it?”
“I couldn’t,” Richard said. “A very old magic resisted my attempt. It is like the cup is in one place and two other places at the same time. I do not know how or why. I do know we must keep it from others who would use it for their own gain. Merle will speak more on that when we begin our training, I would imagine.”
“Training, huh?” Bran said unenthusiastically. “Schooling.”
“You already passed one helluva test in Annwn, Bran.”
Bran turned away from the Sound, hands still in his pockets. “We should walk to the bookstore,” he said. “Find Merle.”
“He will come,” Richard grunted. “When he is ready.”
As if on cue Merle appeared, the old man walking down the boardwalk with his hands buried in khaki pants pockets and customary pipe in mouth. He wore a light jacket that rippled in the breeze. Richard watched him come, wondering how much the wizard had actually known about Arawn and the truth behind the death of Elizabeth.
“Come from a Renaissance Fair, I see,” Merle commented with a twinkle in his eyes as he walked up, looking over the clothing both Richard and Bran wore.
“Very funny,” Richard growled.
Merle looked over at Bran and gave an almost imperceptible bow.
“Knight,” Merle greeted.
“Hello, Merle.”
“I am pleased to see you both returned whole and healthy,” he said. “It was not the easiest of paths you both trod.”
“Cut the crap, Merle,” Richard demanded.
Merle removed the pipe from his lips and tapped its charred contents out against the rail of the pier.
“Okay then.”
“Did you know how Elizabeth was really killed?”
“I knew well enough not to tell you,” the old wizard declared. Before Richard could protest, Merle raised his hand. “Be kind, Richard. You know, as well as I, if I had told you the fey lord Arawn had orchestrated the death of your wife, you would have left Seattle, abdicated your post, and ventured into Annwn with vengeance in your heart. It would have driven you beyond rational thought and ultimately would have led to your own demise—without atonement for the wrong. No, the way for you to gain what you wished required time and a sacrifice of the truth.”
Richard curbed the bitterness he felt. “And you expect me to trust you after this?”
“You have not trusted me for years,” Merle said.
Richard frowned hard. The whole world around him had dropped away with the exception of the icy blue gaze of Merle. The wizard was right. Trust between them had died when Elizabeth died. Trust with almost anyone had.
He turned away, swallowing bile.
“And you, Bran Ardall,” Merle addressed, ignoring Richard and digging in his pocket for tobacco. “What of you?”
Bran looked at Richard before turning back to the old man.
“Did you know I would accept Arondight?” Bran asked.
“I did not, actually,” Merle replied. “Contrary to what Richard may think, I am not as gifted as many stories make me out to be. I see future possibilities. I see inside of hearts. Nothing more though. The possibilities inherent in the future are not the actual future, only a thought of what could be. There are infinite paths, and although I am fair at deciphering the paths we might one day tread, it is not something I can prophesize.”
“You are saying some possibilities you see never become real?”
“That is exactly right,” Merle admitted. “With you, I knew your potential and helped place you upon a path, but that path had crooked tributaries and you had to chose those on your own. You chose to accept the Paladr. The Lady had other plans, plans I too had foreseen possibly happening. You chose to infiltrate Caer Llion and you chose to hunt down Philip Plantagenet. You stood up to tyranny in Annwn, actions you would have done with or without Arondight. Like your father, you have an honorable heart. If by that you still think I orchestrated events, by all means, believe as Richard does.”
“But you are one of the most powerful beings—in history!”
Richard snorted. “Do not let him lie to you. He saw enough to send the Kreche into Annwn. Without doing so, we’d still be locked in the dungeons of Caer Llion.”
“I did, you’re correct,” Merle confessed. “There are times when multiple paths hold mostly the same event. That was one of them. Wisdom, knowledge of what is true or right coupled with just judgment as to action, has little to do with clairvoyance and more with insight. Is that magic? Is that knowledge of what will happen? No.”
“You know more than any single person ever,” Richard growled.
“That’s right,” Bran said.
“But I still do not know all,” Merle insisted. “If there had been a way to prevent the pain in your life, Richard, or the death of your father, Bran, I would not have hesitated. These paths were kept from me. Do you have any concept the frustration those events—or countless others over the centuries—have caused me? How the loss of those I have cared about over the years begins to weigh a man down, even a man like me?”
Bran looked down to the sidewalk. Richard bit his tongue.
With deft hands, Merle repacked his pipe as he gazed at the purpling sunset. Richard knew the ancient wizard was right.
Merle was not the enemy.
The old man gave Bran a piece of paper.
“Think on your left hand, Bran, and read those words aloud.”
“What is it?”
“You will see.”
Bran did as he was instructed. The moment he finished speaking the gauntlet where his hand had been vanished, replaced by what appeared to be his human hand.”
“What did you do?” Bran breathed.
“I did nothing. You did,” Merle said. “In effect, you just called your first illusion into being. It will hide your hand from those who come into the shop.”
Bran was quiet as he flexed his hand anew.
“You seem pensive?” the wizard remarked.
“When I use Arondight, I feel as though I lose a part of myself in the magic,” Bran said, his voice worried. “Thinking about it, I am almost scared to call it into being.”
“All power corrupts. To what degree depends on the person,” Merle answered, his face solemn. “Politicians. Kings. Everyday folk. Even a Knight of the Yn Saith with
the purest of hearts can succumb to the allure of ultimate power. Some have, to be honest. The loss of control can make a man or woman over into something dark and ugly. You have that within you as well. All do.”
Bran nodded. “How do I—”
“Learn to control it?” Merle offered. “Knowledge of yourself and knowledge of the power you have been given. You have barely begun to examine what you are capable of. I will teach you. Richard, if he is willing and able, will guide you, as he has studied some of the Wards you will be studying. You will discover your own limitations and, in so doing, discover how to control the burgeoning power inside. In time, Bran. In time.”
“What am I to do until then?”
“Right now, nothing,” Merle said with a small smile. “In the coming weeks, months, and years, you will grow into the man I have seen.”
As the sun set behind the Olympic Mountains, the chill of fall gripped the pier. Richard remembered what it had been like to accept Arondight and begin training to be a knight. Bran had a great deal to learn, but from what Richard had seen, the boy was quite capable and would not have a problem with the Wards.
Integrating his own new role into his life might be a different story altogether.
“Your father would be proud of you,” Merle added finally.
“I feel closer to him now than ever before.”
“It was meant,” Merle said. “Charles Ardall was an amazing man. There are many stories I would like to share with you. He loved you and your mother very much, would never stray too far for too long from Seattle. Some Heliwr roam the world, having no want or need, but Charles was rooted here. He protected you and the two worlds that his life would be centered around—without error or bias.”
“How did he die?”
“That is a tale for another time,” Merle said.
“Already playing games,” Richard mocked. “Typical.”
“It is an incomplete tale,” Merle conceded. “The act itself was beyond my sight for reasons I cannot fully explain—only speculate at. There are other forces at work in this world beyond my own, Bran. I do not see all, as I’ve said. I sense another soul, such as my own, who took part in the murder of your father.”
“What do you mean?” Richard asked. “A saved demon soul.”
“No, another wizard.”
Richard was surprised. He had not heard that before. Bran seemed to accept the news, but Richard could already tell the boy was gearing up for a barrage of questions he would ask Merle later.
“Knowing won’t bring my father back,” Bran sighed.
As Bran took a deep breath, the cogs in his mind clearly spinning, Merle pulled a few dollars from his jacket and offered them to Bran.
Bran took the money. “What’s this for?”
“You are starving,” the old man said. “Get something to eat. I would speak to Richard alone.”
“All powerful and poor,” Bran said, showing off the dollar bills. “Is that it?”
“Goodness has never been a profitable business.”
Bran pocketed the money.
“Rick!”
Richard and his two companions turned.
Al and Walker walked toward them, their bedrolls hiked upon their shoulders, each carrying change cans that jingled all too lightly. They were as disheveled and dirty as usual, but each bore a grin that dispelled some of the hardship they experienced living without a home.
“Where ye been, Rick?” Al asked. “We were worryin’ about ye.”
“I’ve been…around,” Richard said. “How are you healing?”
“Tis nothin’, nothin’. Takes more than some hoodlums to kill ol’ Al,” he answered. “We headin’ up the hill to the shelter for some grub. Care to join?”
Having removed memories from both Al and Walker and being reminded of John Lewis Hugo and his last moments, Richard shook his head sadly. “No, I’m not hungry right now, Al. But thank you for the offer,” Richard said, looking to Walker. “You okay after the other night? Fighting those drug dealers must have been scary, especially when they knifed Al.”
“Yeah, ‘twas,” the addict answered. “I was so freaked I can’t even remember what dey looked like.”
“Scary, for sure,” Richard said.
“I know dis sounds nuts but I feel…”
“Yes?”
“I…I feel like I owe yeh my life in some crazy bat shit way.”
“No, Walker,” Richard replied, returning the sad gaze of the addict. “It was all you and Al. You saved yourselves.”
“See ya tonight den, Rick,” Al said.
Richard nodded.
Al gave Bran and Merle an aloof look. He then led Walker with a shambling gait away down the boardwalk, across the street beneath the viaduct, and into Pioneer Square. The inseparable two vanished behind the brick buildings and masses of people, their cups and bedrolls carried with hope, two friends keeping the dangers of the streets at bay.
Richard would see them again soon, no doubt.
“Come into the store when you are finished eating,” Merle said to Bran. “There are things I would like to show you.”
“I will,” Bran said. “Thank you for the money.”
Merle inclined his head. “Thank you for being your father’s son.”
“See you around?” Bran asked Richard.
“Yes,” Richard grunted.
Shaking his head, Bran also walked away, into the city he now protected. Richard was concerned for the boy. Bran had cared deeply for Deirdre and now his heart suffered in her death. As Bran disappeared into the Bricks like the two homeless men before him, Richard recalled what it had been like when the wizard had bequeathed Arondight to him, knowing Bran’s hardships to come.
He hoped the boy had an easier time of it—both with the weapon and his heart.
“He is a tough lad,” Merle said. “You have no need to worry.”
“He is tough. I shouldn’t give him such a hard time.”
“Or the fairy, for that matter,” Merle said, glancing up.
Richard followed where Merle looked, into the boughs of the maple tree where Snedeker hid among several obstinately clinging leaves against the coming winter.
“Is it a poor choice to let him reside here?” Richard asked. “He has nowhere else to go now that his only friend is dead in Annwn.”
“I do not see why not,” the wizard said. “Charles kept his guide Berrytrill near at most times, including in this world, with little problem. I think it will keep you anchored to your new role and give you someone to talk to about all of this beyond just a sad and grumpy cockamamie washed-up wizard.”
Richard nodded, not quite sharing Merle’s confidence.
“Did Jack return to the store?” he questioned.
“He did,” Merle said simply. “It’s how I knew you had returned.”
Richard nodded, staring at the water. “You did well,” the old man whispered.
Richard knew what Merle meant. Long moments passed. The confidence the bookseller had shown him did little to change how he felt about his past and his future. The death of Elizabeth remained an ache deep in his soul. Richard knew it would never heal and the atonement in Rome did little to assuage it.
“I miss her,” he said simply.
“I know you do, Richard,” Merle murmured. “I know you do.”
Both men watched the golden light of the setting sun purple toward evening and eventual darkness. It was the end of another day. Neither said a word. Both knew it was not necessary. They had spent enough time with one another to know silence had more meaning than words sometimes.
After a while Merle turned to depart, leaving Richard to his own thoughts.
“I will open in the morning,” Richard offered suddenly.
Merle stopped and squinted.
“There are several dozen new books in need of repair and cataloging. Old books, centuries old, from the heart of Romania as well as ancient Germania and Gaul.” He paused to light his tamped pipe, pulling on the
smoke. “Your room is how you left it.”
“Perhaps I can find jobs for my two homeless friends?”
Merle exhaled a white puff into the fall air.
“Perhaps.”
Richard watched Merle stroll across the busy street, his pipe emitting quaint puffs of smoke upon the salty breeze. Soon the city swallowed him too, lost to the busy ruckus of rush hour.
The sweet odor of the wizard’s leaf, however, lingered.
Richard waited a few minutes, breathing in cold air, and let the end of the day wash over him with its finality.
If he were to be lonely now, it would be on his terms.
Ignoring the growing darkness, feeling the Dark Thorn and its reassurance at being only a call away, he turned from Puget Sound, a man with more peace than he had experienced in years, and made his way back into Pioneer Square.
Back toward Old World Tales.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
SHAWAWN SPEAKMAN grew up in the beautiful wilds of Washington State near a volcano and surrounded by old-growth forests filled with magic. After moving to Seattle to attend the University of Washington, he befriended New York Times best-selling fantasy author Terry Brooks and became his webmaster, leading to an enchanted life surrounded by words.
He was a manager at one of the largest Barnes & Noble Booksellers in the country for many years and now owns the online bookstore The Signed Page, manages the websites for several authors, and is a freelance writer for Random House.
He also contributed the annotations for The Annotated Sword of Shannara by Terry Brooks, published in 2012.
Shawn is a cancer survivor, knows angel fire east, and lives in Seattle, Washington.
www.shawncspeakman.com
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